Y'all the bts concert was amazing. The boys seemed to really enjoy performing for us and interacting with us. The reactions the fans gave them were so encouraging and you could see at the end of the concert that some of them were starting to tear up. Especially Rap Monster, Jimin, and Yoongi. J-hope was being extra the entire time (and he kept speaking English to us). Jimin’s high notes were on point and his English was super adorable. Jin’s voice was so beautiful to listen to live and Awake was bomb. Rap Monster killed Reflection and he really seemed to be super happy to see us American ARMYs. V threw water at the crowd (I think J-Hope did too) and it wet my friend. He also killed Stigma. I cried when Yoongi did First Love. You could tell he was pouring his heart into the lyrics. Jungkook almost made me cry with Begin but the dance break was dope. He also got an American flag at the end of the concert and was running around with it on stage. The encore stage was perfect. The entire show was perfect. They were so happy to be here with us American ARMYs, and we gave them all the love they deserved. This concert was absolutely wholesome and 100% lit and I hope they enjoy the other four they have left in America.
I want you to know that I had a crumpled up post it note and there was no trashcan nearby. I almost just dropped it on the ground, but then a thought, man criminals!Obito would be angry. So I held onto it till there was a bin.
xD Eco terrorist Obito approves! And in congratulations, have a snippet from the next part of the criminals ‘verse. ^-^
“Out! Get out!” the guard barks,
shoving at them with the muzzle of his gun. “I don’t have time to waste with
you rats. Out of the truck. Don’t make me come in there and get you!”
As they stumble out into the
cold winter sunlight, Nagato grips Konan’s arm so hard he’s absolutely certain
he’s leaving bruises, and it’s the only thing that keeps him on his feet as his
legs cramp. He bites back a cry, frozen muscles and unused limbs not ready for
motion, and Konan has to wrap an arm around his waist to propel him towards the
corner of the compound the guard shoves them at.
“It’s all right,” Konan breathes
as they press against the wall, barely moving her lips, because between the two
of them she’s always been the braver. “I won’t let them separate us.”
She’s said it before—at the
orphanage, with Hanzō, in the darkness of the ship that took them away and in
the chill of the covered truck that brought them here. It makes Nagato wish,
desperately and fruitlessly, that Yahiko was on his other side, the way he
always used to be, bold and bright and incredibly brave. He’d be shouting abuse
at their captors, taking a stand, the way he did when Hanzō caught them. Ever
since the very beginning, it’s been the three of them—cool, calm Konan, cheerful,
charming Yahiko, and Nagato in between them, dull and fearful and far too prone
Those at least have dried up
these last few hellish weeks. The first week Nagato had thought he’d never stop
crying, from fear, from grief, from helplessness. Now, though—now he feels as
if he couldn’t cry even if he wanted to. Everything has withered, leaving only
this barren sort of angry terror, directionless, expansive.
Konan’s fingers latch around his
wrist, gripping back, and Nagato forces himself to breathe.
From behind the guard, another
man laughs. He’s tall and lean, with skin that almost has a touch of green to
it, and his hair is dark. Nagato doesn’t need more than a quick glance from
beneath his lashes to pick out gold at his collar and cuffs, platinum around
his wrist—money, then, clearly.
After Hanzō, after what happened
to their town, Nagato doesn’t think he’ll ever manage to look at men like that
without thinking them monsters lying in wait.
The man’s smile does nothing to calm
his fears. “Fresh meat?” he asks, grinning like it’s a fantastic joke. A step
to the side so he can see past the guard, and strange golden eyes catch
Nagato’s own, full of something he can’t read and doesn’t want to. When he
flinches back, the man just laughs. “Oh, they’re fresh indeed.”
One of the looming men who
forced them into the truck at the docks makes a derisive sound, and it’s only
with effort that Nagato doesn’t flinch from that, too. “They were offered to
the boss free of charge, but he can’t sell them. What’s the point?”
Konan’s fingers are like
manacles around his wrist, but Nagato knows they’re far more to hold herself
back than to hold him. Konan knows he won’t run into a fight, while Nagato
knows Konan will.
Yahiko would be the one leading
the charge, if he were here, but he’s not.
He’ll never be anywhere ever
“Can’t sell them alive,” a woman’s voice says, absently,
mildly amused. In a doorway, the shadows stir, and a tall, auburn-haired woman
in a short dress saunters out, seemingly unaware of the mountain chill that’s
already making Nagato’s teeth chatter. She casts him and Konan a lazily
assessing look, closer to bored than anything, and then turns a sly smile on
the man. “Do you know what livers and kidneys go for on the black market, Mr.
Gardener? Hearts? Lungs? It’s just a
matter of knowing the right people.” Stepping close to him, she traces her
fingers down the buttons of his shirt, casting a look up at him through her
lashes. “Though I suppose you know all about that, if you’re here.”
The dark-haired man laughs even
as he grabs her hand and pushes it away. “You’re slavering up the wrong tree,
my dear Fūka,” he
says, on the edge of cruel mocking, and glances back over his shoulder at the
shadow following him. “Tobi, did you bring my briefcases like I asked?”
A sour expression crosses Fūka’s
face, and she pulls away with a scoff. “Really? You brought your little pet
with you? How tacky.”
Gardener grins, sharp-edged and
wicked, and he ignores her completely as he turns to address the smaller figure
Nagato hadn’t even noticed before. “Give that one to me and wait here. I can’t
stand your lurking.”
“Yes, sir,” the dark-haired boy
chirps, bobbing his head and coming to a sharp halt in front of Nagato. Younger
even than he and Konan are, Nagato judges with a touch of horror, probably not
even seventeen yet. One side of his face is wrapped with bandages, leaving only
his dark right eye bare, and his left eye is covered with a patch. A
long-sleeved shirt can’t quite hide the angry red scars on his right arm and
his hand, wrapped around the handle of a second briefcase he hangs on to while
the wealthy man takes the other from him.